


Folie à Deux

by OneHandedBooks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Feeding Kink, Food Porn, Hand Feeding, Hannibal is a Cannibal, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Snark, food critic Will Graham, how do you solve a problem like Wilgram, master chef Hannibal Lecter, poor Abel Gideon, pure unadulterated crack, scathing restaurant reviews, subtle cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHandedBooks/pseuds/OneHandedBooks
Summary: Will Graham is a feared food critic and Hannibal Lecter is Baltimore's most celebrated master chef.Will opened the great glass door to Baltimore’s newest haute wine bar, folie- an offshoot of head chef Hannibal Lecter’s wildly successful micro gastronomy restaurant, Mind Palace- and walked warily into its crisp, cool interior.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MasterChef!Hannibal and FoodCritic!Will prompted by this ridiculous exchange: https://twitter.com/lunggwai/status/874674719815028737
> 
> You can all blame @redfivewritingby, master of AUs and petty reckonings

Will opened the great glass door to Baltimore’s newest haute wine bar, **folie** \- an offshoot of head chef Hannibal Lecter’s wildly successful micro gastronomy restaurant, **Mind Palace** \- and walked warily into its crisp, cool interior.

The place was green. That was the first thing. Green and clean and outfitted at every single turn with impossibly trendy little grace notes. Will hated it already. The little sign at the hostess stand bragged that the bar had been designed by François “Le Dragon” Millepiqûres - the hottest new architect in town- and Will wondered if Monsieur le Pretension knew that his design resembled nothing more than an… an ostentatious avocado.

Hmm, Will thought. He took his notebook out of his satchel and turned to the review he’d started writing earlier in the day. The top of the page was blank, waiting for a title, and Will scrawled _ostentatious avocado_ there. He looked at it for a moment, double underlined it, and shut the notebook.

The hostess appeared silently at his elbow and greeted him with an apprehensive little smile. 

“This way, sir,” she said and led Will to a quiet table at the far end of the space.

She was deferential, but not overly so, and Will could see she was making a significant effort to treat him like any other guest. The nerves beneath the surface gave her away though and he knew that she knew who he was: Will Graham, the most famous food critic in Baltimore. Feared, loathed, and sometimes loved, depending on whether he’d been to your restaurant or not and what, exactly, he’d had to say about it. He’d destroyed careers with a single bad review. “Poison Pen,” Freddie Lounds liked to call him when she skewered him in the society pages of the _Baltimore Times_.

The hostess handed Will a single page tasting menu and a wine list. Will glanced at it- meticulous pale green paper, even the font was pretentious- then set it aside.

The hostess was signaling across the room for the restaurant’s most senior server. Before she could hand him off, Will reached out towards her, gestured her a little closer. Her face paled, but she leaned in gamely.

“Sir?”

“Is Lecter cooking tonight?”

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Um, unfortunately he is not, sir. You see, no one knew that you… I mean of course no one knew… no one _knows_ …” She laughed nervously then hurried along. “The Chef is…well he is away sourcing uni for this weekend’s opening gala I believe. Abel Gideon has the kitchen tonight. He’s very good, sir. Some say he’s almost as good as Mr. Lecter.” She paused then picked up again, even faster this time, as though she’d been overheard and was desperate to clarify. “Not that I would say that, sir. Of course. No one compares to the Chef.”

She stopped speaking suddenly and gave him a wan smile, looking nearly as green as the restaurant. 

Will stared at her for a moment, slightly weary and a little exasperated, then looked down at his menu, dismissing her. 

The hostess sighed in relief and nearly dragged Will’s server over by her arm. 

“This is MelicentShe’llbetakingcareofyouEnjoyyourmealsir,” the hostess said in a breathy rush and walked off. It was not quite fleeing, but it was close.

Will lifted his eyebrow at the server who gave him the same haughty expression back. She clicked her little green pen sharply and waited for his order.

*             *             *

Two days later, Hannibal was reclining in the lush leather armchair in his office behind **folie’s** kitchen. He poured himself a snifter of excellent brandy and opened his iPad. He paused a moment, luxuriating in the delicious anticipation of success, then clicked the bookmark for Will’s restaurant reviews.

**Ostentatious Avocado** , the title read.

It did not improve from there.                              

*             *             *

Half an hour later and it was over. Mostly. Over but for the terrible phrases that still buzzed and hummed in his head. _soggy pastry. mealy mushrooms. second-rate sauce sourced from the burned bottom of an unseasoned pan._

Oh it was intolerable! Simply intolerable.

Hannibal put his head in his hands, closed his fists in his own perfectly coiffed hair and yanked. Eventually, he sighed and sat up. He clicked his tongue against his vicious teeth and brushed imaginary dust from his impeccable lapels. He drained his brandy and shoved Will’s ghastly review to the back of his mind. He had things to do now, menus to plan.

Gideon would have to go, that much was clear. He didn’t know what he had been thinking, letting the restaurant out of his sight even for a moment before Mr. Graham had written his first review. Although, he had needed to source the uni for the gala, and Abel could hardly have picked that out correctly, and how exactly _was_ he supposed to be in two places at once? Intolerable.

And then there was Will Graham to consider as well. Beautiful boy, beautiful _cruel_ boy, who’d dashed the unworthy dreams of hundreds of restaurant hopefuls, and now Hannibal’s as well, with his acid words. Quite rude. What was to be done about that?


	2. Chapter 2

A tall cadaverous man in a burnished black tuxedo strolled across the newsroom floor as though it were a perfectly commonplace thing for him to be doing. Clicking keyboards went silent in a wave as the man passed. He questioned an intern who directed him to Will’s half-wall cubicle. He stopped beside Will’s desk and waited.

Beverly, the paper’s fashion editor, had the cubicle to Will’s left, her desk just on the other side of his. She was absorbed in her partially finished column on New York Fashion Week and didn’t immediately notice the newsroom fall quiet. As the strange hush spun out, the hairs on the back of her neck started to stand up, and she glanced around, curious. 

Beverly’s eyes went wide and her mouth hung slightly open when she spotted the grave man stooped slightly over Will’s desk, waiting for Will’s attention. He was still and silent. Hands folded behind his back like a cartoon butler. He looked as if he’d be content to wait all day if that’s what it took for Will to finally notice him. Beverly was _not_ content to wait all day.

She looked at Will over the short steel and fabric divider between their desks and cleared her throat. Again, a little louder. When Will made no move to acknowledge the bizarre arrival, she scooted her chair around to his side of the cubicle and rapped his ankle sharply with the point of her shoe.

Will yanked his earbuds out and swiveled around to face her. “The hell, Bev? I’m working on the **Marseilles** review here.”

Beverly gave him a meaningful look and jerked her chin dramatically at the eerie man now leaning quite a ways over Will’s desk and directly into his space.

“Uh, you have company?”

Will pushed his chair back and stood cautiously, doing his best to back away quickly without provoking the man. Sometimes people got angry about his reviews, that was true. He’d had his share of trolls in his Twitter feed, nasty emails, a letter to the editor once, but no one had ever sent Lurch’s older brother after him.

“Mr. Will Graham?” the man asked. “Food critic for the _Baltimore Times_?” His voice was deep and resonant, like a gong at the bottom of a well.

Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s me.”

The man’s thin arm shot out and Will flinched, but rather than anything dangerous, he was holding a thick ivory envelope.

“A message for you, sir,” the man intoned.

Will raised his arm without thinking and the man pushed the envelope into his hand. Will’s fingers closed around it automatically.

“A very good day to you, Mr. Graham,” the man said and departed the way he’d come, cutting a swath through the still stunned journalists like a skeletal black stork and dragging silence after him like a wake.

As the main doors shut behind the mysterious messenger, the newsroom slowly came back to life- keys clacking and coffee percolating. Scratching pens and the sound of a dozen voices reading their columns out loud to test the fit of the words. Someone yelling about the interns again.

The envelope hung lax from Will’s startled fingers and Beverly took it off him. Will blinked, a little dazed, and watched her examine it.

“Feels expensive,” she said, running her fingers over the paper. She held it under her nose with a little grin. “Smells expensive.” She turned the envelope over. On the back was a gold foil monogram- the letters **HL** in a curlicued box- and the name of the restaurant- **folie**.

“Ummm…,” she started, holding the envelope out to him with the tips of her fingers, the accusatory golden brand facing him.

“Oh no,” Will groaned.

He took the envelope from her, slid his finger under the flap, and opened it. Inside was a single ivory card marked with navy ink in a fine copperplate hand. It read,

_Dear Mr. Graham,_

_I am a great admirer of your work, your review of my flagship restaurant **Mind Palace** was quite flattering, and I sense we may have gotten off on the wrong foot with my new venture. I was deeply distressed to read of your poor dining experience on Monday and I wonder if I might make it up to you. If you’re not otherwise engaged, I would appreciate the pleasure of your company for dinner at **folie** this Friday night. 8 p.m. sharp. I look forward to seeing you._

_Sincerely,_

_H. Lecter_

Will’s mouth tightened. The note was phrased like a request, but it felt more like an order. _8 p.m. sharp_. There was no information on how to decline and Lecter’s man certainly hadn’t waited around for an answer.

“Jealous!” Beverly exclaimed, reading the note over his shoulder. “Isn’t Friday **folie’s** official opening gala?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

“Do you think he’s inviting you to that? Are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?  Why would he invite me though? It’s not like I can take back the review I already published. Not that I would anyway.  And I don’t write up parties.  That’s Freddie’s jurisdiction.”

Bev’s smile softened a little at Freddie’s name and she glanced across the newsroom at the pretty redhead dictating a scandalous blind item into her microrecorder. 

Will rolled his eyes at her. 

Beverly blushed, then gave Will a challenging stare, daring him to say something. 

Will put his hands up and shrugged, placating. 

Beverly brushed the shoulder of her jacket off, triumphant.

“Anyways,” she continued. “He obviously wants to apologize for the bad meal. It might be fun to see him grovel.”

Will was clearly skeptical. Beverly pushed on.  

“What’s the worst that could happen, you have to socialize for a few hours? With actual people?”

“I socialize with you. You’re actual people,” Will retorted.

Beverly crossed her arms and stood in her practiced _big-sister_ pose. “It’s probably going to be amazing. Free booze. And his food is to die for.”

“ **Folie’s** wasn’t,” Will snarked.

“As much as I love _Ostentatious Avocado_ with all of my heart, it may be my very favorite of all your reviews, you know that _had_ to be an off night,” she scolded him. “And you know you should have gone back again to make sure before writing that hit piece.  But, you wanted to take him down a peg.”

“I didn’t,” Will protested automatically. “That was a fair assessment!”

Beverly waited.

“He was getting totally unwarranted kiss-ass advance reviews from _everyone,_ Bev! “ Will argued. “He didn’t earn them. It’s just because **Mind Palace** was excellent and now everyone wants to interview him and get his recipes and his restaurant advice…”

Will sat on the edge of his desk and took his glasses off, poking them in her direction to underline the point. _“_ And he’s _so_ _arrogant already_. With his arrogant face everywhere.  Every cooking show… .” He trailed off. “What?”

“You watch him on the cooking shows?”

“What? No.”

Beverly looked at him calmly. He stared back at her.

“All right I’ll go.” he huffed.

*             *             *

Hannibal tied his pristine white apron around his waist and poured himself a glass of Burgundy. Having _disposed_ of poor Mr. Gideon, who was clearly not up to the _challenge_ of **folie’s** unique _vision_ , Hannibal got to work on the gala menu. He set a stack of clippings of Will’s prior reviews on the counter beside his recipe box and his Rolodex and tuned the kitchen stereo to a live broadcast of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No.4 from the Baltimore Symphony Opera.


	3. Chapter 3

Will parked around the corner from **folie** at five of eight on Friday night. He got out of the car, tugging at the collar of the tux Bev had shoved him into. His face was shaved within an inch of its life, skin still singing with the scrape of the razor, and he fought the urge to scrub his palms across his cheeks to make it stop.

He started towards the restaurant, checked his watch, then turned around to circle the block because who did Lecter think he was, honestly? _8 p.m. sharp._ When he finally came around to the front of the restaurant at 8:15, it was quiet. The dark green fabric shades were drawn over the big plate glass dining room windows. The double doors were shut. There were no lights, no music, no people.

Will frowned and pulled Lecter’s notecard from the inside pocket of his tux jacket. It still read “ _I would appreciate the pleasure of your company for dinner at **folie** this Friday night. 8 p.m. sharp.”_ He put the card back in his pocket and was just about to reach for his cell phone when the doors to **folie** swung open.

“Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Hannibal smiled then and caught Will’s eye and Will blushed down to his collar. He’d never actually met Lecter, only seen him at a distance at restaurant openings or in print in the society pages. He was even more compelling in person than he’d been on last week’s episode of Conjurer’s Kitchen, which Will definitely didn’t have saved to his phone, where he’d held forth, smiling and arrogant (and handsome),  on the supremacy of French buttercream.

Hannibal held the door open for him and stepped to the side. “Please. Come in.”

Will looked past Hannibal into the empty restaurant, face drawing tight with suspicious confusion.  “Where’s everyone else?

“I cancelled the gala,” Hannibal said casually. As if it were obvious. As if it meant nothing.  “The culinary adventure will be yours and mine tonight.”

“You’ll murder your restaurant with that kind of scandal,” Will muttered, a little stunned.

“Oh, I think you may have already struck it a fatal blow,” Hannibal said, with more cheer than he had any right to. “I thought you might enjoy it if I cooked for you, given your disastrous last supper here, and I didn’t want any distractions.”

Hannibal led Will past rows of empty green chairs and tables and into the kitchen. The overhead lights were dim and every steel surface was set with flickering candles that made the metal gleam. The burning sizzle of the candles and the smooth sweet smell of good wax reminded Will strongly of church.

In the midst of all the cool chrome was a long butcher block table, with one place setting and two chairs, set at an angle to one another at the closest end. 

The table itself held a vast glittering repast. Hannibal’s gala menu writ small, Will assumed. It was giving off the most delicious savory-sweet aroma. Will’s mouth watered and he closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, letting the wonderful scent fill him up.

Hannibal watched him for a moment, for the pure enjoyment of it, then pulled out one of the chairs and gestured for Will to take it.

“Your reviews show a true and deep understanding of the things you’re eating,” Hannibal started. “Not yet a completely sophisticated palate, perhaps, but getting there.”

Will gave him an offended little look at that and Hannibal decided to cut his carefully curated remarks short before Will’s irritation could bloom. He really was a _remarkably_ prickly man.

“Well,” he continued, putting a hand on the back of Will’s chair to push it in. “I look forward to your assessment of the menu.”

Will glanced across the table. There were some clearly identifiable dishes- a miniature pastry of some kind; tiny pink cubes, probably watermelon, topped with origami prosciutto; bite-sized medallions of some kind of meat drizzled with a red fruit coulis- but others were entirely unfamiliar. Was that …jello? With a whole school of whitebait embedded in it?

“I’m definitely… intrigued,” Will offered finally.

Hannibal smiled slightly. He took the dark red napkin from beside Will’s plate and shook it out. Instead of handing it to him, however, or draping it over his lap like some over-eager maître d’, he began folding it. First in half, diagonally, and then over on itself until it became something of a long tapered ribbon.

“I wonder if you would indulge me, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal began. “I find that removing sight can enhance the experience of the food. Would you allow me to cover your eyes?”

“How will I see to eat?” Will asked, flat-footed. Certain there were more important questions he should be asking.

“I will feed you, if you’ll allow it.”

“You’re not eating?”

“As I said, I’d like to do whatever I can to make up for your horrible experience with my former underchef, Mr. Gideon, and I don’t want any distractions.”

Will looked up at Hannibal, at his sharp little smile and the lean, predatory line of his body. At the folded fabric stretched loosely between his hands, ominous and exciting. 

There was absolutely no legitimate reason for Hannibal to propose this and no possible reason that Will should agree. And yet, he knew he was going to.

“Where is Mr. Gideon now?” Will whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his head back a little so that Hannibal could wrap the crimson cloth over his eyes.

“Departed,” Hannibal said, his voice suddenly hard and cold as the steel that surrounded them. Then, off Will’s anxious expression, a softer and more teasing response. “Departed these meager environs for greener pastures where his mediocrity might be tolerated. A short-order kitchen along the highway somewhere, perhaps.”

Hannibal knotted the folded napkin firmly, then took his seat at Will’s right.

Will flinched when Hannibal moved the chair in closer to the table; the scrape of the wooden legs across the tile floor was enormous. 

Then there was the clink of steel on china and a sudden punch of brine.

“This the first thing,” Hannibal started simply, holding out a little silver spoon with a single glistening black pearl cradled in the center.

Will raised his hand automatically, reaching blindly in the direction of Hannibal’s voice to take whatever it was Hannibal was offering. Hannibal caught Will’s wrist and drew it back down, pressing his hand against his thigh again.

“No,” he said. “Let me.”

Will shivered at that, twisted his fingers in the fabric of his trousers to keep his hands still. He opened his mouth a little and Hannibal delicately spooned the small cool orb onto his tongue.  

Will pressed the gelid sphere against the roof of his mouth where it popped, releasing a puff of hickory salmon smoke then a wash of savory salt. He hummed with pleasure and licked his lips, chasing the fleeting flavor.

“Caviar gel and Nova smoke,” Hannibal said. It had been terribly tricky to work out how to do it and he couldn’t begin to disguise his pride in the achievement. 

There was a sort of busy hush after that and Will opened his eyes in the red haze behind the blindfold. He couldn’t see a _nything,_ but he knew Hannibal had gone somewhere. Could feel his absence all along his side like a draft. He heard the gurgle of liquid in a glass just off to his right and turned towards it. Startled a little when the thin rim of a wineglass touched his mouth.

“Drink,” Hannibal encouraged, tilting the glass.

Crisp white wine, thick with cold, bathed his tongue and Will swallowed. Mineral peach and honey lemon. Dry and delicate and smooth.

“Good?” Hannibal inquired.

Will made a small pleased sound and nodded.

“Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” Will answered immediately.

An expectant little pause, as though Hannibal were waiting for something.

“Please?” Will guessed, a flash of warmth blossoming unexpectedly in his belly. He could almost feel Hannibal’s answering smile, like sun on his cheek.

Hannibal held out a small warm pastry giving off a fabulously rich and buttery steam.

“Vol au vent,” he offered. “Duxelle and oyster mushrooms sautéed in garlic and brown butter. Picked myself.”

Will opened his mouth eagerly and then closed it again with a sudden snap, frowning. Hickory-smoked salmon and caviar.  A long-cellared Pouilly-Fuissé Tête de Cru.  He’d had something _just like that_ at **Loche Fyne** when it had opened. Had gushed over the meal in his review, in fact. But that was what, five years ago? And the duxelle and oyster mushroom vol au vent. He’d eaten a little pie like that at the **Fig & Oak** at least two years ago, right?Rated it very favorably too.

He shifted uneasily in his chair, deeply unnerved. “What is this?” he joked. “Will Graham’s greatest hits?”

Hannibal smiled again, broadly pleased. Clever boy. “Taste is not only biochemical, it is also psychological.”

“Angling to obliterate ‘My Dinner with Abel’ by elevating your competitors’ signature dishes to art?”

Hannibal paused, startled by the sharp teasing insight. “Yes,” he agreed shortly.

He set the remains of the tiny vol au vent down on the table. It seemed he’d crushed it in his fingers at some point. He wiped his hands briskly then looked down at Will, waiting there for him. Eyes bound and lips slightly parted. His cheeks flushed petalpink beneath the red slash of the blindfold. He picked up another fragile mushroom puff, grateful Will couldn’t see the traitorous little tremble in his hand.

“Shall we pick up where we left off, Mr. Graham?”

Will cocked his head to the side as though he could _sense_ Hannibal’s uncertainty. “I think I ought to be _Will_ to you now, don’t you?”

“Will then,” Hannibal said softly, his voice like a caress. “Shall we go on?”

Will grinned, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yes. _Please_.”

*             *             *

After the rich earthy crackle of the wild mushroom pastry, there was a forkful of perfectly flaky salt-baked red snapper. A sour cleansing shot of firecold Calvados followed by rich, savory bite of what Hannibal said was pork loin in a sauce of red berries, but tasted strangely unlike any pork Will had ever eaten.

The rough edge of a fabric napkin pressed just below the curve of his lower lip, scraping over sensitive, newly smooth skin.

The sound of steel against bone and the cracking of a shell. The fresh flare of saltwater. Unctuous bloodwarm uni slithering dryly over the tips of a pair of smooth sleek chopsticks and across his tongue.

A toothsome little nikuman followed, plump with soursweet filling. Will’s canines pierced its resilient pasta flesh and a bit of sauce spilled from the corner of his mouth. He felt the rough pad of Hannibal’s thumb against his lips, wiping it away, and he flicked his tongue over it deliberately, sucking at the salt-tang of Hannibal’s skin. Hannibal gasped, a sharp spike of indrawn breath.

Will drifted in swoony seductive ease as he ate what Hannibal offered. Chewed and swallowed and opened his mouth for Hannibal again and again. Sighing with deep pleasure after every bite. Feeling cared for and carefree. His eyes closed and his hands lax in his lap as Hannibal fed him. Filled him.

The vast chrome kitchen closed in comfortably around them until there was nothing in the world beyond the spill of candlelight that encircled their table. Hannibal’s knee pressed warmly against the outside of Will’s thigh every time he leaned forward to present some new delicacy, the tips of his fingers brushing ever more intimately over Will’s cheek, his mouth. Trailing delicately down the long pale line of his throat as he swallowed.

The jagged feel of something ice cold against his lips startled Will from his dozy-warm cocoon. His eyes flew open beneath the blindfold and he jerked away in surprise. Hannibal cupped his cheek and turned his head back gently, cooing encouragement.

“Only palate cleanser before dessert,” he murmured reassuringly. “Taste.”

Sharp icy flakes of frozen champagne burned tartly on Will’s tongue and melted away. He sighed with delight and relaxed against the back of the chair, one hand settling on his full belly. He was flushed with good wine and strong brandy and absolutely stuffed.

“Good?” Hannibal asked, a little smug.

“Good?” Will murmured, languid and teasing. “No.”

He sighed again and stretched, his back crackling in a very satisfying fashion. “Delicious. Everything was delicious. You’ve spoiled me completely for any other chef.”

“Have I?” Hannibal asked with shamefully unsuppressed interest.

“Maybe,” Will teased. “I’m pretty sure no other chef would hand feed me all my favorites to make up for a bad review.”

“A _terrible_ review, Will. Shattering. _Eviscerating_.”

Will tilted his head and grinned in Hannibal’s general direction. “No chef I know would have had the _audacity_ to pull what you pulled tonight, _eviscerating review_ or not.”

And _that_ was definitely the right thing to say; he could almost _feel_ Hannibal preening.

“Dessert,” Hannibal said, when he’d recovered.

“I can’t,” Will groaned. “I can’t eat even one more thing.”

“You’ll have one bite,” Hannibal coaxed sweetly, his voice low. “For me.”

There was another unexpected flutter in Will’s chest. A coil of heat at the base of his spine. “One bite,” he agreed slowly. “For you.”

“Open,” Hannibal murmured and placed a single, shiny red square on Will’s tongue.

The sour candy shell cracked in Will’s teeth revealing a layer of smooth dark chocolate over a chocolate mousse filling. In the very middle was a tiny spherical cage of cherry spun sugar that dissolved immediately against the tip of his tongue.

Will moaned shamelessly, eyes fluttering closed behind the blindfold. “Oh that’s good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“No you wouldn’t have. Dessert is entirely my design.”

“An original finale to a meal of imitation?”

“A meal of _elevation_ ,” Hannibal retorted. “And it’s not quite the finale. I have one more thing for you. But this, you will need your eyes for.”

“You promised there wasn’t anything else,” Will complained, a little surprised at the pouting petulance in his own voice.

“Just wait,” Hannibal chuckled.

He removed the provisional blindfold with a flourish and set it aside. Then he presented Will with a large fragile bowl made from a shallow white shell.

Balanced on its rounded back in the middle of the bowl was half an avocado- dark green pebbled skin wrapped around soft bright green flesh. The smooth round pit like a perfect pebble nestled in the middle. And carved in the flesh all around the pit were the most elaborate whorls and curls and arches. It would have required a steady hand and impeccable exacting effort.

A lot of effort to go to for a joke.

“Ostentatious avocado,” Will whispered, smiling.

Hannibal nodded and leaned in to press his lips to the curve of Will’s ear.

“Ostentatious avocado,” he agreed.

 

 


End file.
